


Fear is Pain, Pain is Beauty

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Gunplay, Handcuffs, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds beauty in taking John apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear is Pain, Pain is Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [ollipop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ollipop)
> 
> Written for the "Guns/Blades" and "Breathplay" squares on my card for [Kink Bingo 2013](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Kink_Bingo_2013)

Sherlock was lying on the couch, turning John’s Sig over in his hands when John came in with the groceries that evening.  He heard John stop just inside the door, and he tipped his head back just enough to watch John stop and stare at him, before passing a sweeping gaze around the flat.  _Searching for bullet holes, determining how angry he should be that I’ve found his gun.  Again._

“Bored?” John asked as he shut the door and set the bags down on a nearby table.  Sherlock was no longer looking at John, but the tone of his voice did not suggest anger.  There was actually a slight hint of excitement in his tone.  The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twisted up for a vanishingly brief moment as heat settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Severely,” Sherlock replied, careful to keep his tone sounding curt.  There was a slight hitch of John’s breath.  _Suppressing a laugh.  He sees right through me_.  Sherlock shrugged internally. _I see right through him as well._

Sherlock looked back up at John in time to see John’s gaze travel the length of his body.  “Traffic lights, yeah?” John asked with a look of raw anticipation that made Sherlock want to grin.

Sherlock responded by tossing the gun to the floor, and giving a nearly imperceptible nod of agreement.  He remained silent as he listened to John pivot on his heels to retrieve the gun, before turning and taking even steps up the stairs to his bedroom.  Sherlock templed his fingers beneath his chin as he pictured John checking over the gun.  He would first check to make sure the safety was engaged.  _Of course it is, John.  I’m not an idiot_.  Then he would eject the clip, check the chamber, and set the gun in his bedside table.  Then he’d pull out something to read.  Or update the blog, maybe.  Try to concentrate on something inane and tamp down his nerves.

Sherlock waited for a few more minutes before heading up the stairs.  As expected, John was seated on the bed with the day’s paper, his back pressed up against the headboard as he skimmed over the stories.  He looked up as Sherlock deliberately stepped on the creaky floorboard just inside his doorway.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he stalked forward and straddled John’s lap.

“Sherlock, what are you--?” John cut off with a muffled grunt as Sherlock covered his mouth with one hand, and plucked the paper from John’s hand to toss it aside.  Sherlock reveled in glee at John’s reaction.  _Eyes widened,_ _increased heart rate, pupil dilation, shortness of breath.  How easy it is to confuse two distinct responses…_

“Bored, John,” Sherlock finally replied with a lazy drawl.  He reached down to grab John’s crotch, and smirked at the hitch in John’s breath.  _Face heating beneath my hand; cock half hard in his trousers.  Ashamed of his inability to control physiological reactions.  Lovely._

John reached up to pry Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth, and bucked his hips to try to dislodge his flatmate, but Sherlock’s knees were planted firmly on either side of him.

“Sherlock! Get off of me!” John tried shoving at Sherlock’s shoulders, but Sherlock just grabbed each of his wrists and pinned them over his head.  _Heart rate accelerating, muscles of forearms straining.  He knows he can’t break my grip._

Sherlock smirked and leaned down to speak into John’s ear, “Tedious, John.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re playing at…” John said, his voice growing urgent as he bucked against Sherlock again, struggling under his grip.  The movement pressed the bulge in John’s trousers up against Sherlock’s stomach for a brief moment, and Sherlock forced down a moan.

“Don’t be an idiot, John.”  Sherlock sighed, as he slid down John’s body, transferring John’s wrists to one hand as he reached down with the other to unfasten the button on John’s trousers and yank down the zipper.

“Sherlock!” John squirmed, twisting beneath Sherlock’s grip enough to free one arm.

John extended his free arm to the side, reaching out for his nightstand.  He continued struggling beneath Sherlock, and managed to flip onto his stomach.  The movement did nothing to dislodge Sherlock, who merely chuckled and twisted John’s captured arm behind his back, but as Sherlock slid forward to sit on John’s lower back and hook his ankles around John’s legs, John fumbled to open the drawer.  Sherlock struggled to gain purchase on John’s free arm, but didn’t manage to pull him back before John grabbed his gun from the drawer.  John attempted to train the gun on Sherlock, but in his awkward position, he was unable to get anything close to a clear shot.  _Safety still engaged, finger off trigger, small crease in his brow.  He’s trying to find another way to throw me off._

Sherlock’s free hand darted forward to yank John’s free arm behind his back.  He pinned both wrists together in one hand, long fingers wrapping around them in a solid grip.   Sherlock grabbed the gun from John’s hand, and pressed the muzzle of the gun to the side of John’s head.  John immediately tensed and went still beneath him.  Sherlock rolled his hips to relieve the increase in pressure in his trousers, in response.

“Stand down, soldier,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear, his tone threatening, but toeing the line of affectionate.  He relished the small shift of John’s hips beneath him as his breath puffed against John’s ear.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what’s come over you--“ _Voice strained, but carefully emotionless--no conviction to his words.  Trying to distract me by talking.  Nice try, John._ Sherlock loved that John was still attempting to fight, even if it was only with his words.

Sherlock made a tsk-ing sound as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers.  “This will go much easier for you if you just accept it, John.  Stop talking.”  Sherlock pulled out the pair of handcuffs he had nicked from Lestrade during their last case, and locked them around John’s wrists.  Sherlock lifted himself off John enough to flip him onto his back, before retrieving the gun.  Sherlock pressed the muzzle against John’s heart.  He hummed in pleasure as he felt John’s speeding heart rate reverberate through the metal of the weapon in the palm of his hand.  He loved watching John’s features cloud with fear.  With terrified anticipation.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s ear, “Color?”

“Green, Sherlock.”  John’s voice was ragged.  Sherlock restrained the urge to reply with some asinine reassurance, like _‘good boy’_.

Sherlock nodded and shifted the gun so that it rested in the hollow of John’s throat.  “Are you going to cooperate?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to speak.”

“Is that your answer?” 

“You aren’t giving me much choice are you?”  John’s voice was gruff.

Sherlock’s answering chuckle was dark, “Of course you have a choice, John.  But the alternative option is rather…messy.”  Sherlock paused, considering, “Well, _messier_ ,” he corrected.

Sherlock’s gaze locked on to John’s.  _Pupils fully dilated.  Breathing so rapid he’s nearly panting.  Oh, I bet he would look beautiful with his lips wrapped around the barrel of his own gun.  Maybe later._

“I trusted you, Sherlock,” John replied in a voice that sounded _so beautifully broken.  Moriarty should take notes._

“Your mistake,” Sherlock sneered, “I warned you: I’m not a hero, John.  Perhaps you should have listened to Donovan that first night.”

John’s eyes shined with tears, and Sherlock was again struck by how _gorgeous_ that was.  It was almost better than the thrill of a case.  The intense focus of cutting into someone he knew so intimately.  It wasn’t a mystery to solve, or a puzzle to be pieced together.  It was an elaborate structure to carefully take apart.  Sherlock thought of the night sky--thought of how he had confessed his…admiration of it, to John-- _let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes cannot appreciate beauty.  I can share it, as well._

John had not changed out of the button-down he had worn to the surgery that day, and Sherlock plucked open the buttons, dragging the muzzle of the Sig down John’s chest as he went.  Gooseflesh spread along the gun’s trail, and Sherlock watched with mounting excitement as the muscles of John’s stomach quivered beneath the gun as it was pressed into the dip of his navel.

“Sherlock, why are you doing this?” John said, his voice sounding scratchy and far-away to Sherlock’s ears.  “Please…I just want to get this over with.”

Sherlock frowned and tilted his head, bestowing upon John a look of disappointment.    His voice was gentle, and as close as Sherlock would ever come to _sweet_ , while still laced with enough menace to keep the scene.“Don’t you see, John? I want to take you apart.  I want to take you apart, _slowly_.”

_Eyes suddenly widened, brow raised, lips trembling at the corners.  Slight hitch in breath.  He’s startled, he really didn’t see it.  Oh, John, my beautiful idiot._

And then, with speed that ran counterpoint to the slow, deliberate motions that had characterized most of the encounter, Sherlock tangled his fingers in John’s hair and _yanked_.  John let out a startled yelp as Sherlock dragged him off the bed and threw him to the floor.  Sherlock towered over the doctor, and coaxed him up onto his knees. John’s shirt was hanging open, and Sherlock pushed it down his arms with the barrel of the gun, so that it was bunched up along his forearms.  Sherlock trained the gun on John’s head and disengaged the safety.  His skin felt alight with fire as he heard John swallow in fear.  “You so much as move a muscle, and you will regret it,” Sherlock growled.  Keeping the gun trained on John, Sherlock released his grip on John’s hair, and leaned over him to retrieve something from the drawer.  He pried open John’s fisted hands and placed the object in them, before repositioning himself in front of John and reengaging the safety.  Sherlock smirked as he traced the seam of John’s lips with the tip of the gun, and pressed it into John’s mouth until it knocked against his teeth.

“Color?”  Sherlock whispered.

“Green," John said automatically, with a low moan.  _Eyes slightly widened and unfocused, breathing short and hitching every few inhales, head tilted forward.  Anticipation looks so good on you, John._

Sherlock’s chuckle was cruel as he worked open the fly of his trousers and pushed them and his pants down in the front.  He palmed his erection.  “Look at you.  Practically begging to choke on my cock.”  Sherlock pulled the gun away and moved to replace it with the tip of his cock.

“No, Sherlock, I--“ The ringing sound of flesh hitting flesh cut off John’s protests and echoed like music to his ears.  A corner of Sherlock’s mind set about working out how to incorporate the sharp sweetness of that sound into a composition.  Sherlock twisted his fingers in John’s hair again and jerked his head back and up.  Sherlock leaned down so that his face was inches from John’s.  “I see you go out every weekend.  Get drunk.  Come home reeking of alcohol, and another person’s come.  You can’t lie to _me_ , John.  I know how much of a _slut_ you are.  I know how much you want my cock down your throat.  I’m sure you’ve had lots of practice.  I bet your gag reflex is nearly non-existent, that I could just slip right into you.”  Sherlock said in a cool, detached whisper that contrasted the way his hot breath hit John’s face.  Tears were slipping down John’s face then, _hitches in breathing more frequent.  Pupils still dilated, but narrower now; gaze downcast; lips drawn tight.  He’s too proud to cry, too ashamed to let it show how much my words affect him.  Oh, I could compose a new symphony inspired by those sounds, John._

Sherlock straightened so that he was towering over his flatmate once more.  “Open up for me, John.” Sherlock pressed the gun to John’s temple, as a reminder.  John’s mouth opened wide.  “No teeth,” Sherlock added, his tone promising unpleasant repercussions in the event of disobedience.  Sherlock pushed into the wet heat of John’s mouth at an agonizingly slow rate.  He let his eyes fall closed as he sank into John’s mouth.  John’s jaw remained slack, but Sherlock still felt the knot in his gut tighten as his cock dragged over the rough, wet texture of John’s tongue.  When the tip of his cock pressed against the back of John’s throat it met little resistance, prompting Sherlock to hum, long and low, as he pushed into John’s throat.  He disengaged the safety on the gun.  John swallowed around his cock.  Sherlock regarded John with a cruel smile, enjoying the renewed flash of fear in John’s eyes, and the tightening of his throat muscles around Sherlock’s cock.  Sherlock pressed John’s face to his crotch, holding him there to a count of ten.  John’s throat worked around the intrusion, and Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John’s face, watching the panic and pain pass over his face.  The longer Sherlock pressed into him, the more desperate John became for air, the closer together the constrictions of his throat over Sherlock’s cock grew, and the louder the small choking sounds John made turned.  The constrictions continued as Sherlock began to pull out, taking just as long to withdraw as he had to enter.

“Sherlock, please,” John pleaded.  _Vocal folds sore, resulting speech pattern should persist for a few hours with continued stress to the membrane._

Sherlock moved the hand tangled in John’s hair to cup John’s face, brushing the pad of his thumb across John’s cheek.  Sherlock hummed, deliberately coloring his words with a callous tone as he spoke, “I love the way you beg, John.”  Sherlock returned his grip to John’s hair, reengaged the safety, and pushed into John’s mouth.  “I’d like to hear it again.”

Sherlock repeated the process of pushing his cock slowly into John’s mouth and down his throat, disengaging the safety, holding John against his crotch, pulling out, and stroking John’s face as he begged and pleaded.  By the fifth time Sherlock pulled out John’s face was covered with tears.

“You look so beautiful like this, John.  I wish you could see it.”  Sherlock wiped the tears off John’s face.  “Color?”

“Green,” John said, his voice gravelly, and sharp with an edge of desperation and lust.

Without warning, Sherlock shoved back into John’s mouth with a quick snap of his hips.  Sherlock laughed as John whimpered in surprised pain.  Sherlock held him down for a few seconds, before pulling back and pistoning his hips forward again.  Sherlock didn’t pull all the way out this time, intent on wringing ever permutation of whimper, gag, or moan he could from Joan’s throat.  John began struggling at the suddenly rough pace, which only encouraged Sherlock to press the muzzle of the gun harder into the side of John’s skull.

It took ten rough thrusts before Sherlock completely pulled out.  He sunk smoothly to his knees in front of John, and set the gun on the floor.  Sherlock cupped John’s face with both hands and wiped away the new wave of tears that had started.  Sherlock tried to lock eyes with John.  _Iris completely occluded, gaze fixed on distant, indeterminate point._ Sherlock’s grip on John’s face tightened, and he turned John’s head so that he could look his flatmate directly in the eyes.  “John.”  His voice was hard and commanding, “John, give me a color.”

John’s pupils began to constrict, and he sucked in a deep, gasping breath.  His gaze focused on Sherlock’s face.  _Muscles in arms shifting--tightening his grip on the bell in his hand.  ‘Convulsed’ may be a more accurate verb to describe that action._   “Y-yellow, Sherlock.”  John could barely speak for his abused vocal cords.  A renewed surge of lust spread through Sherlock, accompanied by a small spark of guilt in the pit of his stomach.  Sherlock nodded once and slid back a few inches.  He picked the gun off the floor, and reengaged the safety.  He didn’t aim it at John, but did ensure it was in his line of sight.

“Up.”

John looked bemused.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…stand _up_ , John.”  Sherlock said, his voice soft, but insistent.  He made a coaxing gesture with the gun.

John slowly pushed himself off his knees, keeping his gaze fixed on the gun in Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock watched as his eyes darted to the door.

“Don’t even think about it.  You wouldn’t even make the staircase,”  Sherlock’s tone was firm, but there wasn’t much bite to his words.

Sherlock rose to his own feet, keeping the gun down by his side.  He let the fingers of his free hand slide over the heated skin of John’s torso, resting against his hips for a few moments.  Sherlock undid the fly of John’s trousers, pushing them down so that they pooled around his ankles.  Sherlock bent down to pull his feet out of them.

“Lie back on the bed,” Sherlock said, training the gun on John again.

John complied, and Sherlock followed the motion with the gun.  When John was settled, Sherlock climbed back onto the bed himself, straddling John’s waist.

“I’m going to set this down.  Don’t get any ideas.  If you so much as think about trying to escape, the gun will be back in my hand so fast it’ll give you whiplash, and I’ll take you with no prep.”

John lifted his chin and glared up at Sherlock, “Fuck you,” he spit out, voice still rough.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face, “Oh, I intend to.”

Sherlock set the gun next to John’s head so that it remained in his peripheral vision.  He smirked as he watched John’s eyes slide over to stare at the muzzle.  Sherlock leaned over John to open the drawer of the bedside table, and retrieved John’s gun oil.  Sherlock slicked the fingers on his right hand, and pressed his index finger against John’s entrance.

“Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock’s left hand darted up and wrapped around John’s neck, his thumb pressing just beneath his jaw into his jugular.  “Don’t speak.”  Sherlock said, voice harsh.  He tightened his grip around John’s neck as he thrust his finger into him. John let out a strangled cry and arched off the bed.  Sherlock pressed a smile into the curve of John’s neck and bit down.  He pressed his cock into John’s hip with quick, sharp thrusts and soft grunts as he fucked John open.  John emitted choked off moans as Sherlock continued pushing into him roughly.

Sherlock pulled his finger out of John’s arse and lined up a second finger.  Sherlock hovered over John, shoving the two fingers inside and crooking them so that they brushed over John’s prostate.  John barely suppressed a moan, and pressed down against Sherlock’s fingers, his eyes screwed shut.  _Look at you, tearing yourself apart for me._ Sherlock stilled his right hand as he leaned over John again, and flexed the fingers in John’s arse.  John’s breath caught in his throat, and Sherlock felt a heady sensation wash over him as he felt John’s heart rate race beneath his fingers.  Sherlock squeezed his hand slowly around John’s neck.  Sherlock dropped his head onto the pillow, moaning at the feeling of John’s heartbeat thrumming under his hand, and the way John’s throat undulated as he swallowed.  He kept a tight grip on John’s throat, his head swimming.  After a few moments he loosened his grip and felt his focus sharpen again at the sound of John’s gasp.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the side of John’s neck.  “Color?” He asked, voice hoarse.

“Green, Sherlock.  Green,” John gasped.

Sherlock scissored the fingers of his right hand, fucking into John with a few rough thrusts.  Sherlock stilled his right hand as he tightened his hand on John’s throat slightly.  Sherlock brushed his thumb over John’s Adam’s apple.  “I love this,” Sherlock whispered as he removed his fingers from John’s arse and unwrapped his hand from around John’s neck, twisting the fingers of that hand in John’s hair.  He sat back far enough so that he could manhandle John onto his front.  Sherlock pressed John’s face down into the pillow, and pulled John’s hips up so that his arse was sticking up in the air.

Sherlock slicked his cock with some of the gun oil and situated himself on his knees behind John.

“ _Sherlock_ \--“ 

Sherlock cut John off by reaching down with his free hand to retrieve the Sig from the bed and running the muzzle up along John’s perineum.  Sherlock let the gun linger at John’s entrance, before dragging it up along John’s spine.  John shivered in response, and groaned as the muzzle of the gun settled at the base of his neck.

Without preamble, Sherlock pressed into John with a hard thrust.  He let his body drape over John’s, leaning in so that he could hear John’s uneven breathing muffled by the pillow.

“I am going to make you come on my cock,” Sherlock threatened as he pulled out of John until only the head of his cock remained in John’s arse, before slamming back in.  As he continued fucking John with at a steady pace--slow, but hard--John’s breathing grew louder, and became sprinkled with whimpers.  The harder Sherlock slammed into John, the more difficult it was for John to suppress his moans, and Sherlock drowned in pleasure at the sign of John’s self-restraint slipping away.  Sherlock’s thrusts grew faster, and he slid the muzzle of the gun a few inches down John’s spine.  He moaned as Joan spasmed around him, and angled his thrusts so that he was hitting John’s prostate with each stroke.  John became incapable of holding back his moans and cries, and he began pushing back to meet Sherlock’s thrusts.  Sherlock grunted, feeling heat build in the pit of stomach and spread throughout him at the sound of John’s sobbing.

“Fuck, John.  You feel so tight around me,” Sherlock gasped, his pace becoming brutal.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said, in the same strangled and rasping whisper he’d been using nearly all night.  Sherlock watched behind his haze of arousal as John fisted the sheets beneath him.  Sherlock slid the gun further down John’s back and disengaged the safety and pressed the muzzle into one of his vertebrae.  The force of John’s next backward thrust nearly knocked Sherlock over.

“You take it so well, John.  You should see yourself.  You should _hear_ yourself.  I bet I can make you come like this.  Come on my cock without so much as laying a finger on yours,” Sherlock thrust into John, shoving his face deeper into the pillow.  The angle of Sherlock’s thrusts changed, ever so slightly, and if the frenzied sounds John began making were any indication, that small shift made a world of difference to the stimulation to John’s prostate.  “Come on, take it,” Sherlock snarled as his thrusts became uneven.  Sherlock cocked the gun, and John came, a loud sob tearing its way through his throat.  Sherlock pressed the gun deeper into John’s back, as he continued for a few quick, short thrusts of his own, before coming with a low groan.

The gun fell from his grasp, and Sherlock remained sprawled along John’s back for a few moments as he tried to catch his breath, before pulling out of John.  John groaned as Sherlock pulled out, and collapsed onto the bed as Sherlock tapped his side.  Sherlock fished around in his pocket for the key to the handcuffs.  Sherlock set the keys and cuffs on the nightstand and returned the gun to the drawer, before reaching up to massage John’s shoulders, and lay his arms out by his sides, before continuing down to rub both wrists.  Sherlock smiled as John groaned in response.  

Sherlock stripped down to his pants himself of his clothing as quickly as possible, before retrieving a few wipes from the pack John kept in his bedside table.  He carefully wiped away the come leaking from John’s arse before discarding the wipe into the rubbish bin by the bed, and using a second one to wipe away some of the sweat that had pooled on John’s back.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the place on John’s neck he had bitten earlier.  “Turn over,” Sherlock said, tapping at John’s side, and helping his lover roll onto his back.  Sherlock used a third wipe to clean the come and sweat from John’s chest and cock.  “Scoot up,” Sherlock said, making a shooing gesture.  John shifted up so that his back was pressed against the headboard with his legs drawn up, and Sherlock peeled the soiled sheet off the bed, tossing it to the floor.

“You’re washing that,” John said, words slurred with exhaustion.

Sherlock grinned as he slid up the length of the bed to lie beside John, coaxing him onto his side.  “I’ll be sure to remember,” Sherlock said, pulling the duvet up over them from where it was bundled at the foot of the bed.  Sherlock ran his hand along John’s side, and pressed his face into John’s neck.  He felt loose.  Relaxed.  “Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice wavering with gratitude, and emotion he was loath to name.

John turned in Sherlock’s arms, looking him in the eye with a soft, and tired, smile.  “I love you, too, Sherlock,” John mumbled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, and burrowing in Sherlock’s arms as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
